


coffee on my lips (a boy's hands on my hips)

by orphan_account



Series: Tumblr Prompts [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Tumblr, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:32:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stacey Fawkes has the perfect life: good grades, good friends, excellent behaviour. That is, until one afternoon behind some dusty shelves makes her realise that perfection is a little overrated... </p><p>shameless Coffee shop AU, Cursed!Storybrooke, part of my tumblr prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	coffee on my lips (a boy's hands on my hips)

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked: How about Curse!AU (wow, these really are becoming addicting to us), Peter & Wendy hanging out in Granny's Diner.

Granny’s Diner is quiet today, devoid of its usual hustle-and-bustle. The pine-tree patterned wallpapers absorb only the occasional disturbance of cheap mugs clinking, the odd rattle of cutlery against plates. Stacey Fawkes sits alone, fingers pressed to her temple, poring over an old, dusty tome. The cover is barely intact, with a fading picture of three fairies frolicking in a moonlit field, all bare feet and flower crowns.  _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , for Lit Studies. 

Normally, she  _loves_ Shakespeare- he writes how he wants to, invents new words and phrases because they sound  _right_  rather than pertaining to language- but she’s finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate. A stack of notes, torn and stained with ink, lies strewn across the table-top. Her practise report on the use of humour to convey meaning in drama is currently being used as a placemat for her drink, coffee rings littering the elegant script.

Ruby, her dark hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, has been replenishing Stacey’s supply of caffeine for about three hours now. She’s made comments many a time before about how the younger girl’s veins must be clogged with the bitter liquid ( _nectar of the gods, Ruby,_ Stacey corrects), but they are more often than not brushed away with a mock-innocent grin and an empty cup waved under her nose.

“Coffee,” Stacey likes to declare to anyone who’ll listen, “is love. Coffee is  _life._ ”

She catches Ruby’s eye as she looks up from her copy of the play, and gives a weak smile. All she gets in return is a knowing look, a pointed glance towards the little shop across the street where they both know  _he’ll_  be.

Stacey shakes her head violently and glares down at the page she’s been trying to read for the past half hour. The words are blurry, indistinct, and she rubs at her eyes. A few messy curls have already fallen loose from her ponytail, hanging over her forehead. She tucks them behind her ears, but they soon slip back into the corners of her vision.

A bell tinkles, signifying the entrance of another customer. She hears Ruby’s unsubtle clearing of the throat, and closes her eyes in defeat.

“Hey there, Fawkes,” a voice drawls from somewhere above her head, “long time, no see.”

Stacey sighs, snapping her book shut and aiming a glare at the tall boy who stands next to her booth. “Well, if you didn’t skip school so much, that might not be a problem.”

Sam Greene smirks at her, sliding into the brown-leather seat on the opposite side of the table. He unwinds his blue-patterned scarf from around his scrawny neck, tosses it on the table beside her notes, tugs off his patchy gloves and coat. He reaches forward, wrapping bony fingers around her mug of coffee and taking a long sip. “How’ve you been?” he asks, ignoring her barb.

“Fine.” She says flatly, scowling at the cup in his hands. “I’m fine.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, a half-smile tugging at his lips, clearly waiting for her to return the courtesy. She doesn’t. “I’m good, too, in case you were wondering.” He snarks, but as always there’s amusement tinging the corners of his eyes.

“I wasn’t.”

“Oh,” Sam breathes, pseudo-insulted, “you wound me, Fawkes. Really, you do.”

Stacey rolls her eyes. “What do you  _want,_ Sam?”

He props his elbows on the table-top, coffee still cradled in his spindly hands, and leans forward. A suggestive smirk, laced with the kind of heat that he always seems to look at her with these days, curls at the corners of his lips. “I think we both know what I  _want,_  Fawkes.” He whispers, eyes burning.

She feels a flush creep up her neck and swallows, thickly. His gaze tracks the movement and she can’t help but remember his lips on her throat, his teeth biting her, marking her skin and writing words into her flesh. “No,” she says hoarsely, “I mean I- we can’t.”

He touches the tip of his tongue to his lip, tilting his head. His hair is messy today, messier than usual, messy as if- as if someone’s been running their hands through it. She finds herself hoping to God that it was him, and not someone else.

Jealousy bares its pointed teeth in the back of her head at the thought of some faceless girl with her fingers twisting in the golden-brown thicket of locks, tugging at them, eliciting a groan from him that sounds as if it’s from his very  _toes._ Stacey knows she can’t afford this kind of possessiveness if it was a one-time thing, like she’s told herself again and again, but her hands still clench and her lips still thin, and a fearsome anger whips up inside her. The kind that is a hurricane, the kind that would strip Storybrooke  _bare_ if she let it out, the kind that whispers  _Never-_ to her at night but stutters over the last syllable, the kind that wakes her in a cold sweat, dreams (memories?) of cruel boys and wild things fading from her head.

“Can’t we?” Sam sets down the mug with a  _thunk_ on her stack of notes, pushes up the sleeves of his shirt past his elbows, and laces his fingers together.

“No.” Stacey repeats, more firmly this time, forbidding her traitorous gaze from sticking to the way the lean muscles in his forearms tense and relax.

He considers her above the steeple of his digits, and slowly slides his tongue to the corner of his mouth, like he does when he’s trying to find his words. “Why not?” he settles on, after a few moments.

She gapes at him. “Because- because we  _can’t_! Sam, we both have reputations to uphold. If we’re seen together the kids at school will literally  _rip us apart,_  and you might be able to deal with that but I can’t. Plus, my parents would kill me and – and I just don’t want to, OK?”

“Yeah,” he says, “but I  _like_  kissing you. It tastes nice, and you make these little noises that’re all breathy and… well. I think my, uh,” he gestures with his left hand, “ _reputation_ will be fine.”

“First of all,” Stacey hisses, “I do not make  _noises_. Second of all, I  _told_ you it was a one-time thing and-”

“Which is why it happened twice after the first  _one time_.” Sam notes drily. He watches her flounder, and reaches out to slide a few pages of her homework over to him. The paper rustles in his hands, and he drops his eyes to the words written between the blue-green lines for a moment.

She gives a little growl of frustration, digging her nails into her palms. “You _cornered_ me!”

“You liked it,” he remarks, boredly, still scanning the paragraphs of her painstakingly-written essays.

Stacey opens her mouth to retort, but the flow of words is blocked by memories of the previous week (the  _last time_ ), images of Sam pressing her up against the wall in Detention, fingers scorching under her shirt, lips tasting of candy and the mints he’s always chewing piercing to the forefront of her mind. “I didn’t,” she manages to choke out lamely, but the rapid beating of her heart and the reddening of her cheeks says otherwise.

He huffs out his scornful, husky chuckle. “ _Right_.” He draws the word out mockingly, raising his eyes to hers. “This for English?” he asks, flicking the paper in his hands.

She falters at the sudden change of subject, but decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if said gift horse is Sam ‘Dickweed’ Greene. “Lit, actually.”

He purses his lips in a sort of  _well la-di-da_ expression, squinting at the small writing. “Huh. Who’s Puck?”

“Fairy sprite… thing. Mischevious. Likes to play tricks for Oberon, the king. Basically screws a lot of stuff up in the plot, really.”

“Sounds like a pretty swell guy.”

“Of course  _you’d_ say that,” Stacey groans, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes, “Mister Let’s Fuck Shit Up.”

He laughs, and this time it’s a proper one: a full-blown, head thrown back shout of laughter. She takes her hands from her eyes just in time to see the way his adam’s apple bobs in his throat, the stretch of his jaw and the clean lines of his chest underneath the thin shirt he’s wearing despite the cold, when his whole body shakes with merriment. She cinches her tongue between her teeth and inhales shakily when he looks at her again, a crooked smile splitting the sharp angles of his face.

“Since when do  _you_ swear?” Sam asks, pushing the flop of his fringe out of his eyes.

The urge to say  _no, don’t,_ and tell him how much she likes his hair messy rises unbidden to the back of her throat. She clears it, shattering the words, and comes up with new ones instead. “You’re a bad influence.” She sneers, but it unable to keep the amusement from her tone.

This is the wrong thing to say. Or the right, depending on how one looks at it, but she’s not getting into that. Sam flashes her a salacious grin, says, “oh  _really?_ ” and then stands up abruptly.

Stacey falters as he pulls on his coat, stuffing his gloves into his pocket and haphazardly tossing his scarf around his neck. “Where- where are you going?” she demands, testily.

He stops to give her another crooked grin, peering down at her, and holds out one of his hands. “Let’s get out of here.”

She’s slipping her hand into his grip before she can even think about what she’s doing, grabbing her coat and hat. He pulls her towards the door, their fingers interlaced. “My homework-” she begins, but he shakes his head.

“Ruby can look after it.” He says, loudly enough for the waitress to hear, ignoring her retorting eyeroll. He’s grinning at her, widely, a boyish grin that makes her heart beat a tattoo against her ribs.

She tries to promise herself that  _nothing will happen,_ he’s just going to show her another one of his silly pranks, but her lips are already tingling in anticipation of his, her tongue already aching for the sweet taste of him. She’s going to kiss him within an inch of his life, she knows, kiss him until he’s  _gasping_  and can barely remember his own name just like Ruby told her to when she confessed after the first time.

Stacey wrenches her hand from his just as they reach the Diner’s exit. “We can’t go  _together,_ ” she hisses.

He only sighs, suspiciously compliant. “Sure, sure,” he mutters, and opens the door, gesturing for her to walk through.

She nods, stiffly, at him, pulling on her green pea-coat against the December cold that permeates the air outside. It’s not  _freezing,_ but the wind still has bite. As she begins to march down across the street to the little toy shop Sam spends all his time at, various residents of Storybrooke wave to her before hurrying to the next store, all doing their Christmas shopping.

She waves back to each of them. Stacey, being the adopted daughter of Jack and Marcus Fawkes, who are the co-founders of almost every charity based in Storybrooke, is quite well-known in town. Both as a goody two-shoes and someone who  _never_ breaks the rules. She has a perfect attendance record, similar grades, and has never even been  _near_ the line, let alone cross it. She’s popular, friendly, in the running for class president and despite her wicked temper strives to be kind and giving to everyone she encounters.

Sam Greene, however, is the opposite. He lives with his uncle, a skinny, unsmiling man with a horrid scar on his face. He has never donated to charity, and is notorious rather than well-known as a fully-fledged scoundrel. He breaks the rules so often it’s a wonder he hasn’t been expelled, although sometimes Stacey thinks that the principal would forget he even attended if, the rare times he did, Sam was actually inconspicuous. He’s the  _bad seed,_ the boy that her parents would  _freak_  at if they ever saw them together. The boy who delights in tearing down everything she’s built for herself with a few kisses.

Just as she spots Henry Mills, her favourite babysitting charge, and his pixie-like teacher ambling towards her, calling out her name in greeting, Sam loops one of his long arms about her waist and pulls her to his chest. Her palms are pressed flat against him, mouth open in a small  _oh_ of surprise. He smirks down at her, brushing his knuckle against her cheek in a shockingly intimate gesture, and she dimly hears Henry ask  _what’s going on_.

“You have coffee on your lip.” He says, simply, and tilts her head back so he can kiss her.

In the middle of a crowded street, too. And it’s not exactly  _chaste._ In fact, it’s the opposite; he kisses her with the kind of smug passion that would usually make her roll her eyes if it was someone else, but now only causes her to give a startled laugh into his mouth and stand on her tip-toes to level the playing field.

He tastes of sugar and coffee, and his hands are warm against the small of her back. It’s different to the other times; the first kiss they’d shared had been out of frustration, behind the shelves of that dumb toy store, the second out of curiosity, the third out of lust. Now, it’s as if he’s got something to prove.

 _Screw it,_  she thinks, and slides her hands up into his hair.


End file.
